


burnt bread

by blobfish_miffy



Series: little darlin' [4]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Cold Weather, Fluff, Gen, George babbles a lot, Homesickness, John Lennon Lives, John Needs A Hug, Light Angst, Loneliness, Male Friendship, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Sharing a Bed, Swearing, and Seven, and george gives him one, and sean liking pancakes, because he's john, but it's mainly platonic, george being an uncle, honestly you could see this as a shipfic, it's very brief, john bitches a little, little darlin' au, plus! it has john being a dad, sean is a wild sleeper, so he's cute, to a degree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21537970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy
Summary: George looks like he hasn’t aged at all since they’ve last seen each other, still sporting his moustache and the long-ish hair, still skinny and lanky, still mischievous and warm. His coat is long and black, collar popped and suggesting that he doesn’t want to be recognised, and he’s clutching a large overnight bag in his right fist.He’s also fuckin’ soaked.***It's Beatle Toast- but a lot later. John is alone and lonely and kind of miserable. Then George pays a visit - and the room lights up.
Relationships: George Harrison & John Lennon, George Harrison/John Lennon (Implied)
Series: little darlin' [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1355113
Comments: 18
Kudos: 49





	burnt bread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alltidvinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alltidvinter/gifts), [rufusrant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/gifts).



> **PLEASE READ**  
>  Before you start, I heavily recommend reading [beatle toast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18748687). There are quite some references to that fic in this one - it's basically a part two, but I figured the time skip was too large for this fic to be a second chapter to _beatle toast._ I also recommend reading the rest of the series, just for further context.  
> Anyway, I've been working on this for... quite a while. I wrote separate scenes for about a week after I published _beatle toast_ which was back in May- so it's been quite some time, folks.  
> It's unbeta'd, but I've been editing it a lot since I started(because that's how I am). Any spelling/grammar/formatting mistakes are entirely mine.  
> I sincerely hope y'all enjoy!  
> 

The rain is violently beating against the dark windows of the Dakota during the late evening of the 18th of November, 1982, and John’s home alone - except for his bundle of joy in one of the bedrooms, sleeping soundly under his _Thomas the Tank Engine_ duvet cover. Yoko’s somewhere in South Africa or Australia, probably having the time of her life with her _assistant/boyfriend_ (not that he’s angry with her about that, she can do whatever she likes. Of course. Yeah, of course!) _,_ and all of his staff has left already: he’d sent them home before dinner because he can fuckin’ cook all by himself now, thank you very much. 

There’s a slight regret now, though. He’d prepared himself for an evening filled with calm rest, more than content with having the evening alone with Sean and then the evening alone _without_ Sean, but the stifling silence is starting to become a bit too much and it only reminds him more of how much he’s starting to dislike the place, with its gigantic size and echo-filled rooms.

On the plus side, Sean was a bloody _darling_ tonight _,_ eating everything on his plate and only being a little fussy during bathtime(but that was because it’s hair-wash-day and hair-wash-day is a day that John, too, hates, so he can understand his son’s annoyance very well). Even bedtime had gone amazingly. Sean had, _as per usual,_ done his utmost best at extending his bedtime as much as possible by asking how _light bulbs_ and the _sun_ work until John’d had enough of the excited yet sleepy chatter and kissed the lad goodnight mid-sentence. Sean, to his credit, actually quietened down at that point, only briefly yelling _“goodnight”_ while John hovered in the doorway with a fond smile; he’s been pleasantly silent ever since.

Which _should_ be great, y’know. It gives John the opportunity to read and be alone with his thoughts, even though he’s read and been alone with his thoughts almost every day for the past ten months. Consistently. 

_God,_ why did he send his staff on their way again? No matter how bad he would’ve felt if he’d kept them here for a couple more hours to just talk and not have them do anything else, he probably would not have felt as bad as he does now. Because now he’s alone in an absurdly large, cold living room, curled up on the sofa, thumbing through his copy of some Agatha Christie novel for the hundredth time and contemplating whether life shouldn’t be a bit more exciting even though he’s forty-two and finds the mere mention of a party exhausting and the mere thought of getting drunk nauseating. He’s alone and he’s a little lonely, and his tea’s gone cold and the house is too big. The only light in the room that he’s actually lit is the standing lamp next to him - the big ceiling lights only illuminated the _emptiness_ of the room, only accentuated how alone he really was - and he’s so tired the words on the pages are starting to blur. 

He doubts whether he should phone Paul, or Rings, or maybe even _George -_ but it’s an ungodly time in the morning in England and Ringo(being only a couple of time zones away) is probably drunk and having the time of his life and he doesn’t wanna bother any of them. Maybe Elton, then, though he isn’t sure where the man is now or what his phone number is, and John’s seriously starting to selfishly wonder if he shouldn’t just wake up Sean to have at least _one_ smart ass to talk to. But it’s late, and Sean’s just turned seven and gets cranky when he’s tired, and John wants the boy to _sleep._ Maybe he should crawl in next to the boy then, or carry him to the big double bed in the master bedroom to let the two of them sleep there, like any loving parent would? 

He’s blankly staring off into the distance, mulling over that idea and ignoring how cold and stiff his fingers feel, when the sharp sound of the doorbell rings through the silence in the apartment. His heart jumps in excitement: John immediately closes the book, not even caring to mark the page. It’d be a useless action anyway, considering he’s probably able to tell the novel word for word from memory by now. 

John rises from his seat and stretches, and the annoyance about the pain in his shoulder briefly overshadows his excitement about finally having to do something. Though the dull, ever-present ache always lessens significantly during the day, sitting still for too long locks the muscles and the joints. Getting rid of the stiffness is a bloody pain in the arse. As long as he doesn’t move his shoulder it doesn’t hurt a whole lot - which is, arguably, bad, but he still goes to physical therapy to regain all strength in his arm _so_ _fuck you he’s doing stuff to make it better and not just keeping it still -_ so he tries to avoid any strenuous activities. 

He tries not to be too hasty as he makes his way towards the intercom next to the front door, tries to take his time. He’s curious, maybe a little excited, but he manages to shape his voice into having an undertone of annoyance as he leans in and presses the button with a sharp _“yes?”._

_“Good evening Mr Lennon, George Harrison is here to see you,”_ the robotic voice of the receptionist informs him, and his stomach does a fuckin’ backflip.

He hasn’t seen George in a couple of months and the contact has been limited. Whereas Paul gladly pops by every other week and Ringo tends to call every other day, George rarely is the one to reach out - and subsequently, John rarely does either. All he got for his birthday from his little mate (and he knows he’s gonna sound like a spoiled brat now) was a short phone call, a gigantic bouquet, and a handwritten letter with some old, happiness inducing photographs that arrived the 10th instead of the 9th. John has been consciously blaming it on the postal service as it’s the obvious culprit, but some bitter, childish part of him is continuously sneering that George simply forgot to send it on time because George _hates him_ and _doesn’t like him at all._ Which is complete and utter bull, of course, since even though George had always been a decent actor he can’t fake tears for _shit_ and the way the lad had been bawling at John’s bedside in the hospital must’ve been some kind of proof of _love,_ right?

Swallowing down the odd nerves swirling around in his belly, John shakes his head and leans in a little closer to the receiver. “Send ‘im up, then,” he answers, and the receptionist replies with an _“alright, Mr Lennon”._

John doesn’t decide to migrate back to the living room or to even walk to the kitchen, deeming the waiting time too short to be worth the trip. He cannot sit still, though, anxiously hopping up and down a small part of the corridor while glancing at the door every other second. His stomach churns and his heart races, and maybe it’s a little odd to be so nervous because it’s not that big of a deal. It’s George, _just George,_ and he’s known George for ages now. He’s seen the lad throw up and he’s seen him cry buckets, basically seen him grow up, _so don’t be nervous, now-_

He jumps when the bell sounds again, and in his sheer excitement he’s swinging the door open less than two seconds later. 

George looks like he hasn’t aged at all since they’ve last seen each other, still sporting his moustache and the long-ish hair, still skinny and lanky, still mischievous and warm. His coat is long and black, collar popped and suggesting that he doesn’t want to be recognised, and he’s clutching a large overnight bag in his right fist.

He’s also fuckin’ soaked. 

“Ye look like a drowned rat,” is the first thing that comes out of John’s mouth, and George’s eyes twinkle almost dangerously.

“And you like a dry one,” the younger shoots back. A slow grin stretches across his face at John’s snort. “Well? Are ye gonna let me in, then, son?”

John steps aside silently and George enters, toeing off his shoes immediately and dropping his bag on the marble flooring. “‘m drippin’ a bit,” he mutters, trying to shrug off his coat. “‘n everything in me bag is probably wet, too-”

“Why didn’t ye get a waterproof bag then, git,” John sneers playfully, pulling the coat off Geo’s skinny shoulders and folding it over his arm. The moisture soaks into his sweater immediately and he fumbles to hold it away from him; George snickers. “And could’ve told me ye were comin’ too! What are you _doin’_ ‘ere?”

“‘n what, spoil the surprise? _Never.”_ George is still grinning, all wide and happy, and John grins back sheepishly. He somehow feels less empty already, George Harrison’s wonderfully warm presence taking effect. “And I just thought… we haven’t seen each other in a while, and now that we’re all less childish ‘n all that bullshit, I could just pop by and tell ye I missed you. Because I did,” he adds quickly, “I missed you, y’know.”

John’s cheeks feel a bit hot. “Well,” he huffs, and he tries to stop the sheer _happiness_ from showing too clearly on his face, “I missed you too, if that cheers ye up.”

“It does,” the lad grins, before kneeling, zipping open his bag, and thumbing through his clothes. “They’re all a bit damp, son,” he mutters, “ye got anythin’ warm for me, mayhaps? _Dry,_ preferably?”

“Depends,” John replies, dropping the coat, “are ye gonna gimme a hug or not?”

George surges upright again and throws his arms around John, pulling him tightly against him. John hugs him back with a satisfied sigh, not even minding how Geo’s locks drip rainwater into his neck and how Geo’s sweater dampens his own; he’s been shamelessly enjoying hugs more and more recently, and George’s are always mind blowing. The bastard, of course, still smells as nice as he did years ago, all incense and spicy soap and mints - but without the cigarettes. 

“Hey,” John murmurs when they pull away from each other, “you’ve quit _for real_ for real.”

“Liv likes it more too,” George shrugs with a smile, “and honestly, it’s great not bein’ dependent on them cigs anymore, y’know? Gives me more control over me life.”

“Ye sound like Paul,” he replies, not being able to stop the giggle from escaping his lips as George gasps and places one hand over his heart, and one against the back of his head. “What? It’s true-”

George bends down to pick up his bag. “It’s cos ‘e’s a control freak, innit?” he says, grinning toothily when John nods hesitantly. “Fuckin’ knew it. I love the lad, but he goes nuts when he isn’t in control, doesn’t he?”

“Should’ve seen him last week, when I made coffee for ‘im,” John laughs halfheartedly. “Couldn’t sit still and bounced ‘round like a kid, constantly asked if he could help in any way-”

“Of course ‘e did, annoying prick,” George groans, but his smile is fond. “Now, do ye wanna talk first, or sleep? ‘cos I’m actually kind of tired as I haven’t slept in about 24 hours, and I’m gonna need dry clothes either way, honestly-”

“Then we go to bed,” John answers with a smile, picking up the coat and heading for the bathroom to let it dry. He’s happy with either options, because _George is here._ “I’m kind of tired as well anyway. None of the guest rooms are ready, though, and I’m honestly too lazy to make any of those beds-”

“I’m _not_ sleepin’ on the goddamn sofa!” George yells from behind him, and he almost chokes on air. “Me back has _still_ not recovered from that fuckin’ ‘ospital one, for fuck’s sake!”

“Can you keep it _down???”_ he hisses, having _gigantic_ fuckin’ trouble with stopping his laughter from escaping, “Sean’s _asleep,_ ye piece of shit-”

“Oh!” he quiets down significantly, and John can hear him smile. George, he knows, has a gigantic soft spot for Sean, and Sean has a gigantic soft spot for George: his boy loves to speak with good ol’ Hazza on the phone when he calls. It’s adorable. “How’s ‘e doin’, then? Still as annoyingly like you as before?”

John opens the door to the nearest bathroom and steps inside, hanging Geo’s coat over the radiator. _“Wow,”_ he says while straightening out the sleeves, “don’t be so fuckin’ rude.”

Geo appears in the doorway and grins widely when John pulls a funny face at him, walking past him to lay the (damp) clothes he brought over the rim of the bathtub. “I’m not _rude,_ just tellin’ the truth,” he answers, finishing almost too quickly before he fishes out his toiletries. “But ‘m serious, mate. How is ‘e?”

“Amazing, honestly,” John says with a smile. “Tutors say ‘e’s way advanced for ‘is age, ‘n all that. Very curious, very sassy. Wish I could send ‘im to a normal school, though.” _Hopefully not here,_ he adds mentally. 

“Really?” at John’s nod George chuckles fondly. “God, he’s such a lovely boy, isn’t ‘e? Any major sass-moments since we last spoke?”

“Well,” John murmurs, heading for the stairs after having deemed the coat hanged properly, “just last week, actually-”

“This oughta be good,” George speeds up a little, grasping the railing when he almost slips because of his wet socks. John snickers at the sight. “Tell me, son!”

_“Okay,_ so,” John ignores the ache in his lung, tries to hide his heavy breathing from climbing the stairs. His lung still isn’t entirely functional and spending most of his day reading honestly doesn’t really help with staying in shape, and though he _knows_ Geo won’t judge he still feels a tad ashamed. “I picked ‘im up from Ritchie’s - he was in town for the day and I had to go to the studio briefly, so Sean had the time of ‘is life with ‘is uncle ‘n all that while I could go about me business - and cooked ‘im dinner and he could help. But ye know kids, after stirring the pot with sauce _once_ he wandered off-” George nods furiously, “-and didn’t come back until I had to call that dinner was ready. Anyway, we did the washin’, watched Thomas the Tank Engine, and then it was time for bed. So he gets his jammies and I walk into the bathroom - that I ‘adn’t used for anything ‘cept fillin’ up water bottles for ages, by the way - and jus’- somebody hadn’t flushed.”

“Oh no,” George is pulling a face and laughing at the same time, almost choking on an amused snort when John hits his arm in frustration. “That must’ve _sucked,_ didn’t it?”

“Smelled like a fuckin’ dumpsite for corpses, son,” John says seriously, having difficulty keeping his face straight while Geo is dying next to him. They’ve reached the landing at this point and are walking towards the master bedroom. “So I go- I call ‘im over, yeah? ‘cos that monstrosity obviously wasn’t laid by me, y’know.”

“‘course. Couldn’t’ve been you.”

“And ‘e walks in, in ‘is _Superman-_ pyjamas, all high ‘n mighty, and I go- I go, _“is this your poo?”_ and he - I’m not kiddin’ - he walks over to inspect it-”

George makes a high-pitched, tortured noise.

“-and ‘e stares at it for a good ten seconds, and goes _“no, ‘s not mine”._ Like-”

“Like someone else could’ve taken a shit?”

“Yeah!” John pauses to open the door to his bedroom and gestures for George to step inside. “‘cos it’s not me, _obviously-”_

_“Obviously.”_

“-’n nobody uses that bathroom too, and he was so awfully quiet too whennie wandered off while I cooked dinner,” John mutters, now digging through his own drawers in search for some clean pyjamas for both George and him. He wasn’t about to sleep in jeans. “It was totally him, right?”

“Right,” Geo acknowledges. 

John hears him plonk his bag of toiletries down on the dresser, probably for later use, and picks out a particularly ratty old t-shirt and some shorts for Geo, throwing them in the lad’s general direction. He hopes. Because he’s still standing with his back to his friend, searching for a pair of pyjamas for himself, and actually has no clue where George is standing. “So I ask, _“are you sure?”_ because I wanna give him a _chance_ to fess up, ya feel? and he goes, _“of course I’m sure. Maybe it’s yours”_ so I’m just- _“sweetheart, of course it’s not mine, haven’t used this toilet in ages”_ and he- he just-”

“Breathe,” George murmurs amusedly, rubbing John’s back when he stands up straight again with his own pyjamas in his hands. He’s a bit red in the face because of his held-back amusement, and now a bit short of breath. “What on _earth_ did that lad say, then?”

“He said-” John takes a deep breath, “he said, _“dunno, daddy, you might be a little forgetful with age now”_ and then just… just _sauntered_ away.”

George is snickering, T-shirt pressed against his mouth as a futile attempt to muffle them, and suddenly John is giggling too. 

“He jus’ fuckin’ said that, and I stood there for what? Five minutes? Just absolutely fuckin’ flabbergasted.” John sighs, wipes the tears from the corners from his eyes. “He’s so lovely, isn’t ‘e?”

_“God,_ yes,” George groans, and he’s still smiling. “I’ve missed ‘im and his sassy remarks, y’know? Though, Dhani’s been a right _devil_ lately, too.”

“Oh?” though John’s obviously biased and his own kids are the best in the whole wide world, Dhani, the curious toddler who’s Geo’s pride and joy, is one of the cutest kids John’s ever seen. He’s polite and smiley, and he, Sean and James get along quite well for a bunch of kids. “Do tell.”

“Yeah,” George places the shirt and joggers on the dresser, peeling off his soaked sweater and the t-shirt underneath with a grimace, before quickly sliding the John’s t-shirt over his head. “Apparently I _cuss_ too much, ‘cordin’ to Liv. You ever heard a four year old yell _“fuck”?”_

John’s grimace is unsuccessful and turns into a smile. “Sean had a period where ‘e thought it was a hilarious word.”

“And it _is_ hilarious when they say it,” George says seriously, having taken off his socks and now wiggling out of his wet jeans. He grabs the shorts immediately after he’s managed to kick his trousers off. “He dropped his Moo-Moo and just went _“fuck!”_ and John, I swear to God, I couldn’t breathe. And Olivia was jus’ yellin’ at me, that I shouldn’t find it funny goddammit, and Dhan looked at us with this _beaming,_ heart-melting smile and goes _“goddammit!”_ and I just fuckin’ _lost it.”_

“I don’t blame ye,” John snickers, tugging off his own sweater and immediately replacing it with his sleep t-shirt. He’s still not entirely comfortable with being shirtless, both from the terrible thoughts plaguing his mind since the sixties and the terrible thoughts plaguing his mind since he got shot and the scars were visible. They’re not pretty _at all,_ and he doesn’t like getting reminded of them. “There’s somethin’ about that little voice usin’ profanity that always gets me.” 

“Right??” George has finally finished tugging the shorts on, now dragging a his thin fingers through his thick hair. “Anyway, Liv was absolutely fuckin’ pissed at me, but what she didn’t realise when she was cursin’ me into the seventh circle of hell is that Dhan was listening. So the next morning I’m making breakfast, and Liv wakes him up and carries ‘im to the kitchen, an’ as soon as ‘e sees me he goes _“bastard!”_ all happy an’ adorably and I almost dropped the fuckin’ eggs, son.” George pauses for a moment, eyes twinkling and mouth quivering. “I’m _“bastard”_ now, instead of _“daddy”.”_

John’s almost managed to shimmy himself out of his jeans, but he stops the action at those words and presses one hand against his mouth. He _must_ look ridiculous like that, trousers ‘round his ankles and face red with amusement, but George doesn’t even seem to care in the slightest. He’s still grinning, and John guesses he’s both pleased that he made him laugh and amused by the sheer memory of it. “That’s _hilarious,”_ he giggles through his fingers. “Jesus Christ. _Bastard._ For _fucks_ sake-”

“I love kids,” George says with a fond smile, scratching his neck a tad absentmindedly. “They’re like tiny drunk adults. Can’t wait to see Sean again, too-”

John has thankfully pulled himself together in the meantime, trousers no longer gathered up around his ankles, having deposited the denim somewhere near the dresser. He doesn’t pull on a pair of shorts himself, seeing he doesn’t sleep in those anyway; besides that, he’s more than comfortable with walking around George in his tighty whities. “You can go see him real quick, before we sleep and after we’ve done a proper nighttime routine,” he offers with a sly grin, fingering the weird velvety material of Geo’s toiletry bag. “Y’know, after we’ve washed off our makeup and slapped on some moisturizer, like.”

“I know you’re takin’ the piss,” George says with a quivering voice, “but Liv’s actually convinced me to use moisturizer now-”

“I’ve nicked Yoko’s.”

_“...no way.”_

“Yeah, and I need it, too!” John leans in closer, pulls a face. “Have you _seen_ these wrinkles, son?”

_“Bloody hell,”_ George mutters, but he’s still smiling, “Ye look eighty, John love.”

He snorts and stands up straight again. “Thank you so much. Just for yer information, you don’t look all that young either, Georgie Porgie-”

“Okay!” Geo swivels around, snatching his toiletry bag off the dresser, and makes his way out of the room. John can hardly contain his laughter. Again. The scars are starting to hurt, and his lung too, but he somehow doesn’t mind at all. “Let’s just _slap on some moisturizer,_ then, hm? And brush our teeth too- or I will _not_ survive the coffee stench from your breath tonight.”

“Yer a pest,” John says, but he follows George to the bathroom either way and briefly wonders how the younger man knows where one of the bathrooms _is_ before remembering that George spent a couple of weeks in the Dakota, almost two years ago now. _Jesus._ “You’re lucky your breath reeks too.”

George just laughs again. 

By the time they’ve both brushed their teeth, slapped their (stolen) moisturizer on their faces, _and_ John’s back upstairs after hurrying towards the living room to turn off the lights, George is still standing in the doorway to Sean’s room. He’s a little bundle on his bed, all curled up in his duvet and clutching a gigantic stuffed animal close to his chest, and it’s an _adorable_ sight. 

“Don’t wake him,” John whispers when they silently shuffle a little closer to the sleeping boy, George reaching out to very gently swipe his thumb over Sean’s cheek. “He gets right cranky when he’s tired, so if ‘e wakes up that’s on you.”

“That’s fair,” George whispers back, removing his hand after a few more seconds and straightening up. He waits near the door while John presses a loving, featherlight kiss on Sean’s forehead, and then they’re on their way to the master bedroom. Sean’s door isn’t shut completely as he likes it like that, and John makes sure to leave the ceiling lamp illuminating the landing on so Sean doesn’t get too scared when he awakens in the middle of the night to pee, get some water, or crawl next to them if he’s had a bad dream. 

The sheets are cold against his bare legs and he shivers a little, pulling the duvet tight around his body. George looks a bit stiff still, probably convinced he’s lying on Yoko’s pillow, but he visibly relaxes after John assures him Yoko takes her pillow with her when she travels, and this is an extra one the maid put there to make the bed look less empty. He closes his eyes after the synchronised _“goodnight”,_ allows George to noisily kiss his cheek, and tries to fall asleep. 

After a minute or two George sighs and squirms closer, close enough for their arms to touch. John lets him. He’s thankful for the warmth an extra body brings to a king size bed, a steady, silently breathing weight next to him, and he’s briefly twenty five again when George turns his head to the side and huffs out a breath, the smell of minty toothpaste invading John’s nose. If he concentrates really well he can smell Geo’s signature spicy soap, slightly washed away by the rain, as well; maybe even cigarette smoke if he allows his imagination to work a little harder. It’s so familiar that comfort and trust washes over him in a wave of stifling fondness and he immediately inhales sharply, unable to stop the words that have been on his mind for quite a while from tumbling out. 

“I’m thinkin’ of moving back.”

George startles a little; his arm moves away and the sheets rustle and when John opens his eyes, the light from the landing seeping through the crack in the door helps him see that the lad’s lying on his side. He’s close enough to not be too blurry, confusion clear on his handsome face.

“To Britain,” he clarifies softly, watching Geo’s impressive eyebrows furrow even more. “I’ve had enough, I think.”

“You have?” Geo’s voice is small, almost insecure. “You- how long have you been thinkin’ about it? I mean, did ye just-”

John wets his bottom lip, starts gnawing on it. “Since ‘79? A while now.”

“That’s… that’s a while.”

“Yeah.” He sighs, deeply. “I jus’ miss home, y’know?”

“Where to, then?” George asks. “London?”

“Dunno yet.” He pauses, trying to gather his thoughts. “Thought ‘bout it before too, before ‘79. Every time Yoko and I had a rough patch, every time one of you called, I jus’ found myself wishing that I was there, with you lot, back in that godforsaken town. Sounds and smells of the docks, drunk sailors singin’, that _terrible_ chippy jus’ outside of the Cavern-”

“Hey, those were _edible-”_

“After a night of drinking, yeah, but every next morning I almost broke the goddamn throne with me shittin’ mate- _can ye stop laughin’?”_

George turns on his stomach and buries his head in the pillow, probably to muffle his snickers, and John can’t help but giggle. When he’s finally calmed down enough to not wake Sean with his laughter George turns and stares, still smiling. John’s chest feels warm. “So,” Geo says softly, “you want to return, huh?”

“Even miss the bloody weather,” John laughs, and he knows it sounds painfully wistful.

“Weather’s bad here too, y’know.” His drawl is a deadpan, of course. That bloody Hazza, with his talent of sounding bored without actually _being_ bored. Non-bored boredom. Fuckin’ hell. “Got bloody soaked. Me pants are still damp fer fuck’s sake-”

_“Why didn’t you change out of ‘em, then?”_

“Well you didn’t offer… what’re ye doin’?”

John throws the covers back and ignores the cold air stinging his feet, turning on the bedside lamp and making his way towards the dresser. “Gettin’ ye some dry ones,” he answers, yanking a drawer open and thumbing through it. _Fuckin’ George._ “Damp underwear- Jesus Christ…” he swirls around as soon as he’s found what he’s looking for, squints at the bed, aims for the George-shaped blob, and throws; judging by the muffled spluttering, the blob was _indeed_ George, and he smirks triumphantly. “Change into those before yer cock shrivels up from the moisture.”

He makes his way back towards the bed while George mutters profanity under his breath, slides under the warm covers with a satisfied sigh. George, however, doesn’t really move, just seems to stare at the pair of boxers in his hands with a blank expression. 

“Well?” John barks, and he’s probably being way too loud but he can’t help it. “C’mon then. Hurry the fuck up mate, the Queen gets dressed quicker than you do.”

Geo’s head sharply turns in his direction, and he’s awfully silent for three whole seconds before he starts to giggle. “That truly is the _only_ way you’d tell one of us to dress quicker, innit?” he laughs, setting his pair of boxers to the side and starting to wiggle under the covers. If John didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought Geo was trying to get off; especially when a black form that is probably the damp underwear suddenly flies into the air next to him. But George quickly snatches the clean, dry pair from next to his pillow and pulls it (and seconds later the shorts) over his arse in record-time - even if he _did_ have to twist into some weird acrobatic poses that _again_ would’ve looked sexual if John didn’t know any better - flipping John the bird as soon as he’s done.

“That better?” John sneers, blankets pulled up to his chin ‘cos he’s bloody _cold,_ and he giggles hoarsely when George swats at him with a playful grin before curling up into the covers himself.

“Me dick thanks ye.”

“’m glad it feels happy now.”

“I’m glad _you’re glad_ it’s glad.”

John snickers and whispers a _“shut up”,_ and George whispers a _“get fucked”_ back before shuffling closer again. Their arms are touching, heads close enough that if they both turned slightly their noses would touch, and John sighs. He’s missed this. He’s missed _George,_ in all his bony, funny, warm glory, and he sincerely hopes he’ll be able to see more of him as soon as he leaves for England. He’s laughed more in the past hour than he has in the past week and he’s not sure if he’ll be able to go that long without constant, genuine laughter again.

He presses himself against George some more, intentionally tangling their ankles together. “Beatle toast,” he then whispers into the darkness, and he can almost _hear_ Geo smile. 

“Am I still the marmalade?”

“Ye were marmite,” John replies. George knocks their heads together, sighs contentedly through his nose. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, speech slurring with exhaustion. His breathing is deepening already. “Marmite ‘n bread.”

“Yeah,” John says, drifting off to sleep quicker than he’s been able to in ages. “Tha’.”

John awakens to darkness, cold, and a foot in his face. 

None are particularly surprising, honestly. Sean has the tendency to crawl into his bed at ungodly times in the morning, and he even when he sleeps like the dead and a bloody cannon wouldn’t be able to wake him he’s restless. John can attribute many a bruise to the lad’s swinging feet and waving fists and he’s accepted his fate at this point. Besides that, he always puts his thermostat on low during the night; considering the terrible weather, the barely decent temperature during the evening must’ve lowered significantly after a couple of hours. He’s not surprised, and he’s not disappointed.

But still. There’s a foot.

In his face. 

_Fuckin’_ hell. 

_“Sean”,_ he groans, scrunching up his nose at the feeling of sharp nails digging into his skin. Tiny toes push harshly against his cheekbone as Sean stretches a little from his curled up position, and another foot joins in on the party. This time the big toe digs into his eye. “Seriously??”

“No’ _now,_ daddy,” Sean mumbles sleepily, voice muffled. He appears to have plonked himself right in between John and George, using the two of them has his personal pillows. “Sleep time now.”

“Yeah,” comes the low, hoarse, tired rumble belonging to George. “Shu’up, John. Sleep. ‘S _early.”_

“I would sleep if there wasn’t a _foot_ in my face,” John hisses, turning his his head to the side and sighing as Sean’s toe slips from his eye socket and rests near his jaw. He blinks rapidly; his eyes were rather dry. “Sean, lad, _c’mon._ Vertical in bed, remember? Please?”

Sean groans loudly and tiredly but does as he’s asked, shuffling in a more decent position. He swings his leg a little as he goes, and if John hadn’t quickly buried his face in his pillow, Sean’s heel would’ve probably smashed against his nose. That would’ve hurt like a _bitch._

George grumbles something unintelligible when Sean finally settles between them and the duvet rustles, Geo undoubtedly deciding to lie a little closer to the tiny little furnace.

_“Whaimeissit?”_ he mumbles, immediately followed by lazy shushing from Sean. George snickers at that.

“What?” 

“What time is it?” George repeats hoarsely, yawning loudly right after. Sean shushes him again, more insistent than before, and has the nerve to sound grumpy. The poor kid just wants to sleep.

John sniffs and sits up a little, immediately regretting the action; the cold air attacks his upper body and he rubs his bare arms with his free hand as he leans towards the digital alarm clock, squinting at the blurry red letters.

“Jus’ gone seven,” he murmurs, dropping himself back onto the bed, turning onto his side, and tugging the duvet up to his chin. He rests his forehead against Sean’s, sighing through his nose. “Too early.”

“Damn straight.” George agrees, voice muffled by his pillow. “Let’s sleep a little bit more.”

The room settles into a cosy silence once again and John can feel himself drifting off again, but not quite. He’s drowsing, that comfortable state somewhere between sleep and consciousness where time flies and halts. Sean murmurs something in his half-sleep, George is dead silent apart from his deep breaths, and John feels at rest. It’s blissful, really, and he honestly doesn’t want this to end. 

It sadly isn’t long before Sean seems to awaken from his light slumber and starts squirming.

John sighs through his nose, turning onto his back and placing his forearm over his eyes. “What’s wrong, love?”

“I gotta pee,” Sean says loudly, and he immediately sits up, bouncing in place. George grumbles something.

“Then you _pee.”_ John answers. His head is feeling heavy with sleep and he doesn’t feel like getting up yet. Sean is _seven_ and can pee on his own. 

“I’m also hungry,” the little lad continues, and John can _hear_ him pouting. “I’d like some breakfast, _dad.”_

“Yeah _dad,”_ George mutters, voice obviously muffled by his pillow. John wants to hit him. “Your son would like some breakfast.”

John tiredly rubs at his eyes and sits up a little more, making grabby hands for his glasses on the bedside table. It’s still awfully cold in the room, even though it appears the sun’s out now, and as soon as Sean finally comes into full focus John sees that he’s _indeed_ pouting. “Breakfast, huh,” he mutters, pursing his lips at the messy-haired boy in the _Superman_ pyjamas. “What would ye like?”

Sean starts to grin widely, an excited gleam in his dark eyes, and he scrambles off the bed. “Pancakes!” he yells, dancing around the room. “And- and- hot coco? _Please_ daddy, can I have some? _Please??”_

“No tea? Or juice?”

“No! Hot coco!!” 

He sighs and fake-groans, though he can’t hide his smile. “Alright,” he relents, “hot coco and pancakes for you, then. Put some socks on first, it’s cold. I’ll see ye in the kitchen okay?”

“Okay!!” sounds the over-excited answer, before the boy zooms off to his room pull a _(hopefully)_ clean pair of socks on. He’s singing a song of his own, one about pancakes to the tune of _Yellow Submarine,_ and John can George hum along quietly.

John stretches to wake himself up a little more. He tries to hide his wincing at the stiffness in his shoulder before glancing at George and realising that the man can’t even see it with his eyes closed.

He looks quite young like that, half-awake and trying to fall back into his slumber. His hair is messy and his features are relaxed and John gets attacked by absurd quantities of _fondness_ at the sight. Uneasy because of the almost overwhelming amount of emotion, he pokes his friend in the nose with much zest. “You ready to wake up, Haz?” he asks, immediately glad that the words don’t come out as mushy and loving as expected. He can’t help but smile brightly at George pressing his pillow a bit tighter against his face.

“It’s _cold,”_ the younger one whines, burrowing himself deeper in the blankets. “I don’t wanna.”

“C’mon lad,” John pushes gently, and he can’t help but pull at Geo’s dark hair lovingly, poking him in the cheek right after to annoy him into awakening fully. “It won’t kill ye to get up, y’know?”

“Yeah, but it _might.”_

“Seriously.” He feels the need to laugh but manages to keep himself together by biting down on the inside of his cheek. “‘S time to get up, lad. Sean can be a right danger y’know? Kid’s gonna be a hitman later in life, I’m bloody sure of it.”

George opens his eyes, looking a whole lot less tired than John expected, and raises his impressive eyebrows. His mouth seems to want to pull into a smile. “What’ll happen then? I’ll be toast?”

Right as those words leave his lips, Sean screeches something that sounds like _“PANCAKES”_ but could’ve been a bloody battle cry for all he knows from the landing before he loudly rushes down the stairs. John quirks one eyebrow at George, who’s starting to grin lazily. 

“Yeah, son, you’ll be burnt Beatle bread. He’ll toast ye alive.”

George dissolves into a hysterical fit of giggles and John snickers along happily, feeling warm and full even though he hasn’t even had breakfast yet. It’s a great feeling, having his odd loneliness dissolving by the second. George sits up in bed now, still chuckling, and shivers. 

_“God,_ it’s cold.”

John sends him a sheepish grin. “I know.”

“Should probably get out of bed, though,” George says.

“That’s what I was trying to get you to do, shithead,” John retaliates. 

_“PANCAAAKES!”_ Sean yells from the kitchen.

George snorts, dragging a hand through his hair, and throws the duvet back. “Alright then,” he murmurs. “Hopefully my stuff’s dry by now, so that I don’t _freeze to death_ here.” 

“I hope so too,” John says. He’s climbed out of bed himself, making his way to the dresser to grab a pair of socks and some sweatpants. “‘S not like I’ll borrow you anything, right?”

“Fuck off,” George laughs, and John grins at him before turning back to the opened drawer, fishing out a clean pair of joggers and climbing into them quickly. A cold looking George waits patiently at the door as John pulls his socks on his feet, and the look on his face when John finally finishes and claps him on the back to announce he’s ready to go downstairs is sheer relief.

And so they go. George is visibly shivering but as animate as ever, giggling excitedly when John mock-pushes him down the stairs and chattering about whatever. Sean has proceeded to continuously yell about pancakes, and impatient undertone having creeped into his voice, and when George swiftly replies something about _“patience”_ the realisation hits him as if he’s been punched. 

He’s not feeling the cold. 

The apartment feels warm instead. 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the "is this your poo" joke John makes is by Michael McIntyre. Look him up- he's got that John Mulaney power of making the most mundane, everyday things hilarious!  
> Thank you so much for reading!  
> xxx


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